Fighting the Tide

After twelve years as a minister in the Lutheran Church, including five years in Australia, we were now back in Finland, where I was serving as the head of a parish in central Finland. During the last years my confidence in the Church, or the institution, as I would rather call it, had gradually dropped to zero.

 

The drama that was about to unfold in public had already erupted in my mind months earlier. Somehow aware of the impossibility of my continuing as a minister in the Church, I still accepted the new position and uprooted my family from a settled life in Brisbane, Australia, to the Finnish city of Tampere.

 

As if this transition would not have been difficult enough for my family, who loved it "Down Under," we still had to face the fact that I was going to quit my job, the only livelihood I had ever known. Deep inside I knew that I could not continue in the Church, but for the time being I also knew I had to face the people on my home ground – including the Bishop, the Church council, and of course our relatives. I could not quit from a distance.

 

The summer of 1990 was cool and quiet. The color of the horizon, however, signaled a warning. It was going to be stormy. I have never experienced the eye of a cyclone, although we lived through some cyclone warnings in Queensland. The transition period, from leaving Australia until I took up my last position back in Finland, felt like the quiet center of a storm that was about to burst around me. I knew it was going to come, and I realized it would be difficult. Should I wait until they fired me – which would happen if I continued to preach as I believed and not as the Church wanted me to? Or should I leave of my own free will? In the eye of a storm, there is no easy way out. This I soon came to realize.

 

During the weeks preceding my crucial meeting with the Church Council, I had discussions with my Bishop. During the three-hour drive to the Bishop's residence, my heart was beating rapidly in excitement. How would he react? How would I react? Would he try to convince me not to go through with it? Would I be strong enough to withstand the pressure? When I arrived, we were seated in the same salon where the reception on the eve of our ordination had taken place twelve years earlier. His wife served drinks and biscuits. I could tell that I was not the only one who was nervous. The Bishop realized there was a lot at stake, for him, his prestige and his Church. I explained my doubts about some of the Church’s fundamental dogmas, which so greatly contrasted to what I had read in the Tanach. To me the Church had become just a large institution, no longer the Body of Christ. "Remember," the Bishop said to me, "you have to realize that you have a family to support. It will be very difficult out there for you if you leave the Church. You are responsible for the wellbeing of your family." I was shocked at his suggestion: "Let's keep quiet about what you really believe and you can keep your job." The biscuits almost stuck in my throat and my heart jumped. Did he really say what I thought he did? This kind of bargaining did not appeal to me and I left the Episcopal residence even more determined to give up my position, before they had a chance to fire me.

 

I went back to my office. It was located on the fourth floor. The whole building was part of a large complex that represented the might and power of the Lutheran Church in Finland. I felt almost guilty using the congregation’s typewrite as I wrote a letter stating my decision to resign as minister of the Lutheran Church. Twelve years earlier I was solemnly ordained to the ministry, and now I was giving it up. I could not fight the Church, nor transform it. But I could leave. Slowly a feeling of freedom washed over me in the midst of all the chaos that was unfolding. My soul was about to be set free. I was elated, but at the same time, frightened. What was it like, living outside the Church? Could I survive or was it a freedom of death?

 

I called the Church Council of my parish to a special session.

      

The meeting was about to begin, and we were all waiting – my wife, and I, the council of the parish, and the congregation that had only recently elected me as their minister. The Bishop called. He was going to be delayed. As we continued to wait, I thought back to the phone call I had received, telling me that I had been elected as the new minister of this congregation. I was in Australia at the time, and due to the different time zones, the call came at 4 o'clock in the morning. A few members of the congregation were phoning to congratulate me – I could hear their excitement at my election. With this in mind, I had mixed feelings to say the least. Was I betraying these people by leaving them after such a short time? Deep down, I knew there was much more at stake than the leadership of a parish. Within a short time, they would have a new minister, and would care little about what happened to me. It was certainly inconvenient for them, but not a catastrophe. As for me, I was risking my very existence, my faith, everything I had built my life upon. There was no turning back.

 

The Bishop finally arrived. Before the proceedings began, I handed him a plain envelope, which contained my letter of resignation. He was to take it to the Diocese, where it would either be accepted or rejected. Then, I opened the meeting, and asked to address the audience. In front of the entire congregation, I made the same statement as in the private meeting with my superior, the Bishop. With my Bible in hand, I pointed at the practices where, to my understanding, the Church had deviated from the clear meaning of the text. I explained that I could not find trinity in the Bible. Nor could I find Sunday as a day of rest. And I stated that in many practices the Church tried to imitate Judaism, while still opposing the Jewish people throughout history. I made it very clear that my loyalty would be to the Bible, as I understood it, and not to the Lutheran institution.

 

The longer I spoke, the greater the tension in the room. I could sense how uncomfortable the situation was for everyone present. Some tried to hide their feelings, while others could not. Those who did not succeed revealed a face that said it all. "How dare you challenge the infallible, holy Church?", while others in plain instinct of self-preservation pretended not to lower themselves by responding.

 

The Bishop did not interrupt me, although he looked nervous and angry. When I finished, after speaking for no more than thirty minutes, I expected there would be a discussion. There was none. After a short silence, the Bishop, his face white, and his body trembling with anger, did not hesitate. He pointed to the exit and said: "There is the door, I ask you to leave!" I was shocked. He repeated himself. Never before had I been thrown out of a meeting. I could not move. This time the Bishop tried to add more power to his statement: "According to Martin Luther you are a heretic. There is the door, I ask you to leave!"

 

I was ready to leave, but nevertheless, this came as a shock. My wife and I left the room. Another couple from the council joined us and expressed their support. Tears spilled from our eyes as we embraced, knowing that the moment had finally passed, and it had been unavoidable. 

 

Suddenly my friend reminded me what the Bishop had just said. "Did you notice? He did not say 'you are a heretic according to the Bible,' but 'according to Martin Luther?'" I could live with that. That was exactly the support and comfort I needed at that moment. Although I was convinced that my actions were correct, the consequences were serious. I had a family – my wife and four daughters – to support. And I had just quit everything that I knew best – preaching, teaching, running a congregation. Suddenly, all my skills and experience were worthless.

 

 

(Strangers No More, by Shlomo Brunell. Reprinted with courtesy of Gefen Publishing House 2005 www.gefenpublishing.com)